Boredom of the Writer and other poems

Like the earth, parched, prays for rain to pour from the clouds

Like the clouds, streaming with radiance, need the vastness of the sky

Like the sky, heavy with stars, needs to be lifted up by the Lord God

Like the Lord God, in order to forgive us, needs our faults

Like my faults only exist because I’m a dreamer, a bewildered and unaware

                                                                                                        poet

Like poetry and wine are from you, in you, about you and for you —

(beautiful, flowering, with kohl-darkened eyes)

I need you

To explain life’s meaning and my reason for being

Your beauty confirms and is endless, I have reached you …

(and I cannot reach…)

2013, London

i.

With night comes a muffled grief

like a neglected garden:

          and she is out late, gathering her faded leaves.

My mother has an inbuilt fear of policemen

       and a prayer rug she hides us under 

when they patrol the neighbourhood. 

She fears the sharp tongues 

       of other women,

night terrors and the treachery of time.

For her, old habits die hard — 

every dusk, she burns her pungent herbs  

          The scent drives evil from our house and envious eyes

she used to say.

Every Tuesday she goes to the Sahla Mosque 

           to hand out bread and dates:

and when her prayers are answered

she dedicates a tray of candles to Khidhr

       and promises to light them that very evening

on the banks of the Kufa.

Tears glisten under her lashes

          in the flicker of candlelight.

        Oh ... river

be gentle with my mother’s candles -

her fire isn’t out yet. 

Lord Kidhr

         be gentle with my mother’s tears

for in her heart is all the sorrow 

of the Euphrates.